Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Witchy Business

Chapter Ten

A light squealing of brakes jolts me awake, and for a moment, I'm lost in the darkness. It's this small second of blackness that terrifies me: the moment that my body feels weird, like its stuck in a dream, but my senses are sharp enough to determine it's time to wake up. After a few more blinks, my eyes adjust to the dark space around me. The only illumination comes from the radio, in the form of a digital blue light.

"Morning, sunshine." The voice is startling, and the amused tone it carries tells me that it belongs to the werewolf.

"Where are we?" I straighten up and wipe the sleep from my eyes. Last I remember, I was sitting in the driver's seat—where he's currently planted—and singing the obnoxious songs on the radio. As he insisted, I was for him to get off of work. I'm not even sure when I closed my eyes.

"How long have I been out?" I groan. My head feels heavy as it lingers in the purgatory between a headache and migraine.

"About two hours," he quips, his eyes are glowing like moonlight in the dark car. "You snore, by the way."

I've cleared enough fog out of my eyes to see that the clock on the dash glows at 1:34. I can also see that we're no longer in the parking lot of Beauchamp's. Instead, we're parked along the curb of my front yard—the same spot I parked when I first thought Beck was stalking me. That was just a few hours ago, but now it seems like a world away.

I yawn, and when I open my eyes again, I catch the soft gleam of a television shining through my window.

"Beck! My mom's home!" I take hold of the handle and struggle to get out of the passenger's seat.

"And?" He frowns, then he mimics me by getting out of the car.

"She's going to kill me!" I say, scrambling to gather all my stuff. "What do we do? There's still a thousand things we need to talk about!"

"I'll just meet you inside," Beck flouts from across the roof of my car. His face twisted like I'm being ridiculous.

"Right, like she'd ever let you walk through that front door." I briefly look through the window, searching for some sort of movement. The only light on is that from the TV, and there's no visible motion near it. "I guess we can just meet up tomorrow?"

When I look back to the car, he's gone.

"Figures," I mutter as I shut my door.

Inside the house smells like cheap wine and cinnamon candles. It's bitter and a bit gross, but at least I don't have to worry about the stench of bleach anymore. I'll probably be sore tomorrow from the brute force I needed to scrub the blood out of the carpet.

Mom's face down on the couch with her fingers still latched to the half drunk liquid in her glass on the floor. The second I go to move it, she senses and stretches to life.

"Hey," she whispers. Her eyes are half lidded, barely coherent, and I realize she's probably drunk.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed." I move her glass onto the table and help her to her feet. It takes a heap of strength for me to drag her from the couch to her bed, and after a few grueling minutes, we get there. She remains mostly silent until I lay her down.

Something about this feels off. Part of me feels like there's something I need to say or do, but the actual want is so distant that I can't grasp it. I try to ignore the feeling of my skin crawling, and I help her draw up the comforter. When Mom's tucked in, she mumbles with her eyes closed, "I miss you, Raif."

The statement is like someone is physically digging their fingers into my chest and squeezing my heart. This same moment has happened a thousand times over. Mom gets drunk, I carry her to bed, and she sobs about Dad. Sometimes, she asks me to stay with her, and I do, at least until she passes out.